Page 96 of Marked by the Demigod

She raises an eyebrow right back. "Take Katya with you?"

"The thing, the thing that has kept me alive, that kept Vanya alive, all this time...I don't think one of us can kill the other." The tone in his voice is as if he is about to ramble, and ramble hard. "I don't know why I couldn't see it before, but it makes sense, yes? Why they've always sent their lackeys after me, why they've sent killers instead of themselves, and..."

"I'll do it, then." Aimes says, quick, and it stops him cold, face paling. "It'd get them off our back?"

He nods, then quickly shakes his head. "It has to be someone who can die," he says, fervent. "Someone...disposable."

"Katya's not disposable." Maybe in the grand scheme of things with wars and gods, but not today, not in the bureaucracy and in the community and the nitty gritty nature of the city.

"No, of course not, but she's had her entire life training to be dealing with people like me and would have a better chance of living and..." his face twists, as if his next words tastes nasty. "And if she dies, I'll be okay."

She can see where he's going and hates that she does.

"You could always find someone else to replace me," she says, and it's a surreal conversation for a quiet over air-conditioned office of a dead man. "You'd just have to get away quick enough."

He blinks at her, for far longer than necessary, and with a sense of detached horror she thinks he might cry. "I don't...I don't think I'd be okay. Even if I got away." He rasps out, as if yet another emotional confession drains him dry.

She raises an eyebrow at him, and he smiles at her, handsome and devastating. Her hands in his are suddenly sweaty, even with the chill of the air.

He glances at their hands, as if noticing. "I think I'd be very much...not okay. If you were gone," he says.

Swiveling her chair back and forth, she regards him, and he just grows more and more uncomfortable. A sense of somewhat sadistic glee rises within her. "Iakov, are you getting awkward?" She pokes at him with her foot.

He gives her a scowl, but there's no heat in it. "Shut up," he says, has voice drawling. "I'm trying to be meaningful here."

She pokes him again with her foot. "And?"

He narrows his eyes at her, but the anger and panic is gone, and it feels much more like they're on normal footing. Or normal for them, like this is a normal visit while she was out on location and he just had wanted to nebulously see her.

"Amelie," he pauses as her face scrunches up, "Aimes, you are..." he trails off, as if lost in his words. "I didn't think I'd actually like you this much." He blurts out. "When I started this, I thought...I didn't think."

She quirks an eyebrow at him. "That's why I want this threat gone," she says, trying to school her voice into being as matter as fact as she could possibly get. "Cause I don't like running."

He leans back, almost tipping the cheap office chair. After a few second, his face twists, and he nods. "Makes sense." He stands. "This was your friend's office?" He says, voice stilted.

She nods, looking back at the computer. "I think he was the only one holding this building together."

He looks alarmed, as if taking her literally, before glancing at the computer. "And fixing these is what you do."

"Sorta."

He hmmms, and leans back, brows furrowed. "When can you leave work?"

* * *

He stays her entire shift,where she manages to rebuild the code with a lot of swearing and a medium amount of sweat, and he takes her arm in his, formal, as they walk out.

No one pays them a bit of attention, as they step out of the busy library and onto the busiest street in Pasadena. She feels rather than hears his quick intake of breath as they move through the crowd, back around to the employee parking lot. His bicep remains tense, the entire way to her car, as if he thinks his brothers will be waiting once more, only relaxing once the car is in view.

It occurs to her, that she rarely sees him walk somewhere.

"Are you coming home with me?" She asks, facing him direct, watching the trepidation and the confusion flit across his face. "I wouldn't mind the company."

Instead of answering verbally, he opens the door and climbs in.

* * *

It'sthe most surreal drive back to Burbank she's ever had. He doesn't say anything, just an expression of deepening discomfort, and doesn't speak up until she closes her apartment door, where he exhales violently. "Sorry your friend doesn't like me." He blurts.

It had been so far from her mind that she just quirks an eyebrow at him and doesn't reply.

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